


End of the Stars

by MyckiCade



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff, M/M, Mpreg, Religious Conflict, emotional freedom, old habits
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 08:46:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19808815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyckiCade/pseuds/MyckiCade
Summary: Heaven still wanted their war. Denied the execution of a traitor, the angels would find their own sacrificial lamb, a temporary balm for their wounds. The consequences weren't considered. What was it that was said, for not looking ahead of one's actions?Well, Crowley wasn't sure what they said, but there had to be something, some sin hidden in rash decisions. Why should he have cared? He had his own problems, after all. Sure, he and Aziraphale had helped stop Armageddon. And, yeah, they were finally getting the chance to be together. Didn't mean the Universe was going to grant them any peace to actually do anything about it, now did it?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, there! After some intense debate, a whole lot of reading, and two straight hours of begging (aren't best friends amazing?), I've decided to contribute something to this glorious fandom. Well, something other than bookmarks.
> 
> This is being written for the aforementioned friend, El, as well as for myself. Between us, we are celebrating the finalizing of a divorce, the purchase of a new home, and one of us (not me) needs a distraction from the realization of her eldest child getting his driver's license. Dress burning commences at nine o'clock. (Just kidding. The dress is being donated).
> 
> P.S. 'The Golden Girls' has been my favourite program for over twenty years. I will use any chance I get in life to make a reference. You have been warned.

The late afternoon sun warmed the back of Crowley's neck, while a cigarette simultaneously heated the space between his long fingers. The smoke drifted this way, and that, against the subtle draft of motion caused by so many people rushing by. Shoes scraping, tires screeching, mothers telling their sweet little offspring to get a move on, silently asking themselves why they'd ever bothered to procreate. Everyone was in a hurry to get somewhere, like it was any other day.

Reclined in his chair, one arm across the back, Crowley couldn't keep the faintest smile from his lips. It was a day like any other day, wasn't it? And, really, that was the point. They'd had nearly six months of just-like-any-other days, each one as boring and mundane as the last. Repetitious. Dull as could be.

It was beautiful.

He tried not to dwell on how it nearly _wasn't._

Shaded eyes keeping casual tabs on a brave little pigeon, poking itself closer to the small cluster of tables outside of the café, Crowley reached his free hand toward his tea saucer. His fingers closed around an untouched biscuit, and he broke a small piece from the rounded edge, promptly tossing the morsel toward the wandering bird. Wide eyes blinked twice, accompanied by a head tilt, before the offered snack was apparently accepted.

"Don't tell your friends," Crowley said, as the pigeon pecked at the biscuit with enough enthusiasm to do a woodpecker proud. "Get a gang of you here, skulking about, and _my friend'll_ symbolically adopt you all, on a daily basis." No response came from his new friend. Crowley smirked, turning, a fraction, to rest his chin on his shoulder, and cross his legs. "That's what I thought," he continued, tossing another bit of biscuit onto the concrete. "Smart fellow."

"I'm sorry. Did you say something?"

Turning his head back around, Crowley regarded his lunch date with the same, unbothered smirk. "Nice of you to join me," he teased, flicking a bit of ash over the side of the chair, carefully - if only known to himself - away from the still-nibbling pigeon.

"Nice of you to start without me." The motion of Crowley's cigarette hand caught Aziraphale's attention, causing a rather offended wrinkle to appear across his nose. "I thought you were getting away from those?" he asked, making little attempt to hide his disappointment.

Crowley shrugged. "I'll get around to it, angel."

Said angel merely let out a flat, "Mm-hm", which was somewhere between, "I hardly think so", and, "I've heard that one, before". Which, he had. Three times, this century, alone.

Flicking away more ash, Crowley nodded toward his companion. "Anyway, I ordered you some tea, too," he placated half-heartedly. There was little need, as Aziraphale was hardly as put-out as he tried to sound. A blink later, and the ten-minutes-old pour was showing fresh signs of steam. As expected, Aziraphale's cross expression lit up, shifting to one of utter delight. Honestly, six thousand years in, and Crowley still didn't understand it. He was fairly certain that, if he tried to shift between emotions at the same breakneck speeds as his companion, he would end up with whiplash enough to make Satan, himself, cringe.

Aziraphale took a nibble out of his own biscuit, savouring the small taste, as though he had just sampled the ambrosia, itself. The enjoyment that crossed his face put a small smile on Crowley's, who couldn't help but shake his head.

"How have things been?" Aziraphale questioned, setting the biscuit back onto the saucer, in favour of reaching for his tea. The steam had lessened, however miraculously, enough that the angel could venture a small sip.

Across the table, Crowley lifted his forearm from the back of his chair. He ran his thumb nail along the top of his scalp for a second, fingers extended far enough to keep any threat of ash from his hair. "S'been quiet," he replied, with something of a frown. Radio silence, while a fine reprieve, had worn on the both of them for some time. It was liberating, sure, but neither side was too keen on that idea, as a general baseline. Obedient foot soldiers, that's what they'd wanted. Not radical free-thinkers. Perish the thought! "No rumbles, no orders..." He trailed off, into another shrug. "Same as it's been, really. Won't complain." Turning, once more, in his seat, Crowley flicked away another bit of his nearly-expended smoke. "You?"

"Not a harp," answered Aziraphale, that blessed crease settling back over his nose. Crowley fought the urge to roll his eyes at the sight. "You _do know_ that the sign says 'No Smoking', don't you?"

"I'm evil, not illiterate."

Aziraphale clicked his tongue, though, the jury could remain out on whether it was in regards to the smoking, or the sarcasm. "You're polluting everyone's lungs!"

Having commenced Operation: Eye Roll, Crowley scoffed. "Fine, _fine,_ angel." With one last flick of his fingers, he sent the offending cigarette flying toward the ground. (It wouldn't reach, they never did, but Aziraphale still found it within himself to complain about his non-existent 'littering'). Looking back at his friend, the demon assumed a near-even expression that only teetered on annoyed. "Happy, now?"

"Yes, actually."

"Good."

A measure of silence fell over them then, save, of course, for the traffic of mankind. The cooing of pigeons, and the chirps of song birds. Before Crowley could properly consider what suddenly irked him about that, Aziraphale cleared his throat.

"Are..." he began quietly, as though he didn't dare utter whatever he was about to, but was going to do it, all the same. "Are we ever going to talk about it?"

Behind his sunglasses, Crowley raised an eyebrow. He should have known, _did_ know, that it would come up. Eventually. Aziraphale never had been terribly good at leaving things alone. And, this... Well, this was, admittedly, quite the sizable elephant in the room. "Why _ever_ would we?" he returned, at last. His tone wasn't harsh, or mocking, only curious, he was sure of it. Wouldn't risk anything else. Still, the hurt expression that crossed the angel's face felt like a sucker punch to the solar plexus, causing Crowley to backtrack, just a few paces. "Look, it's not that I'm trying to avoid it-"

"-I bloody well beg to differ-"

"- _I just don't see_ where we need to harp on it. No puns intended." He wasn't sure what look came over Aziraphale's face, then. Frowning, sour. It was something akin to a deeply unimpressed bloodhound. (What his frame of reference was, on that, he had no clue, but blamed the internet, entirely). Crowley sighed, leaning forward, arms draping over the table top. He tilted his head, just enough to show Aziraphale a sliver of his eyes, over top of his sunglasses. "Do you have any regrets?"

"Oh, Heavens, no," was the rushed reply.

Crowley nodded. "Neither have I." The admission was easy, sliding off his tongue, like a blunt attempt at reassurance. "Which is good. There's no reason for it."

Aziraphale sighed, glancing down to where his fingers were busying themselves, gently pulling at the tablecloth. "I just..."

"Angel, let me tell you something," Crowley interrupted, before the new wave of worry could leave the runway. "You want to talk about it, and I get that. I do." He paused, choosing his next words with a care he wouldn't have bothered with, had he been speaking with anyone else. "It's not that it's not worth the time, or the energy. It is. Very much so, but..." He held back a sigh of his own. "You want to talk about _love._ "

The scowl that crossed the angel's face could have damned a better being where he sat. "And?" he demanded, losing patience at an impressive rate. "Is that so terrible a thing?"

Crowley couldn't help it. He smiled, wide and genuine, effectively setting Aziraphale to a visibly-bewildered silence. "No," he murmured, "it's not. But, it's _love,_ Aziraphale."

"I know what it _is._ I brought it up."

"Yes, but you want to _talk_ about _love,_ " he reiterated. "It makes no sense, at all."

Aziraphale huffed. "Why not?"

"Because, talking about love is like dancing about architecture." Crowley smirked good-naturedly. "In both cases, I strongly suggest you just _don't._ "

There was a lengthy pause, Crowley grinning, and Aziraphale staring back blankly. Then, the angel turned a long-suffering gaze to the sky. "I swear, Crowley," he muttered, clearly attempting to tether his ethereal wrath. "I'm going to take away your film projector."

Both of Crowley's eyebrows shot up. "My fil- _It's called a dee-vee-dee player,_ " he hissed, emphasis on every letter, before he, too, decided to make the effort to reign himself back in. Starting this argument up _again_ wasn't going to get them around this, any easier. "We've gotten away from my point."

Aziraphale sniffed, looking anywhere _but_ at the demon across from him. "I wasn't aware you'd had one." The words were just _dripping_ with such sass, that they brought another smile to Crowley's lips.

"We don't have to talk about it, angel. That's my point." He pressed on, despite Aziraphale's apparent holier-than-thine-opinion attention having settled back on his yet unfinished tea. "We can. We will. I'm going to tell you I love you, every day, for the rest of my existence." That earned him a glance, however shy, obscured by eyelashes, and hope, alike. Crowley's smile softened, and he pushed his sunglasses back to the top of his nose. "It just won't always be with words."

The silence dropped by for another round. Crowley raised his own cup of tea to his lips, prepared to allow Aziraphale a moment or two to digest what he had just said. When he looked back up, he could see the faintest tinge of pink lingering across the angel's cheeks, and a smile fighting to break into his expression. His eyes had returned to his drink.

"Well," Aziraphale murmured, tracing his thumb along the edge of his saucer. "I thought _I_ was rubbish at this."

Crowley broke into a laugh, Aziraphale not far behind him. It was short-lived, but well-enjoyed, leaving both parties gazing at one another, like a couple of schoolboys.

"Let's just enjoy it, Aziraphale," Crowley said, after a moment, voice gentler than he should have been capable of. "Let's feel it, and live it. Now that we can..." His expression faltered for a second, eyes drifting to the table. "I don't much care to waste time, talking about it." He looked back to Aziraphale, who was still staring at him with that same, besotted expression. Heat threatened to rise to his own face, and he swallowed uselessly against it. "That's... That's all I'm getting at."

Eyes never leaving Crowley's, Aziraphale reached across the table, to slide his hands under the demon's. He brushed his thumbs along cool skin, letting out a soft sigh, through his nose, at the contact. After a moment of reveling in the feeling of something so simple, but so exquisitely intimate, Crowley wrapped his fingers around the other's, and gave a gentle squeeze.

"I think," Aziraphale replied, once the tea had properly gone cold, "that I can agree to that, then." His smile broadened. "Your sweet words have swayed my opinion."

Crowley smirked. "Y'know, I don't think they heard you, in the kitchens, angel."

***

Some while later, as they stood, preparing to make their exit, Aziraphale glanced around. "My goodness, there seem to be a lot more hungry pigeons around here, than I would have expected."

Crowley's eyebrow twitched, as his own gaze shifted, looking for the brave, wide-eyed traitor.

***

There was, on a plane of existence, which sat slightly to the left of the mortal world, a small cottage. It was a quaint little thing, with beds of flowers under the front windows, and a trail of ivy steadily creeping toward the roof. Trees lined the sides of the property, each with full leaves, providing shade to the entire structure. The sun was warm, smiling down on the life that grew, and thrived within its light. One might easily consider this space, this little sprawl of property to be the epitome of tranquility, and peace.

It was here, in the shade of a sturdy oak, that a woman - well, in the most basic sense of the word - had busied herself with hanging a new sun-catcher from a low-hanging branch. And, catch, it did, rather brilliantly, if she was to say so. (And, she certainly did). A pair of birds seemed to agree, from where they had perched themselves, a few limbs up.

"Try not to knock this one down, mm?" she asked quietly, offering her visitors a small smile. One of the birds returned a short, sweet sound, which was entirely mischievous. By day's end, she suspected she would have to re-hang the attractive little ornament.

It was also here, in the shade of a sturdy oak, adorned with strings of sparkling glass, that a woman caught a shift in the warmth of the breeze.

There were some things that were easy to read, in nature. The coming of a storm, for example. Temperatures, and pressures, little tells that were, by design, warnings to nearby creatures. Warnings with varied degrees of meaning, anything from 'batten down the hatches' to 'get the hell out of Dodge'. This sudden swirl of cold air, like any good sign, carried its elements.

_Hurt._

_Anger._

_Judgement._

The wind sang a dark melody against her ears, swirling, and howling, as it whipped her hair into her eyes. Looking toward what had been a clear, blue sky, the woman shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. A grey cloud was collecting at the edge of the horizon. Oh, yes, a storm would be coming. Unseasonable, and untimely. Casting one more glance to the birds, she found the branch empty. A frown settled over her lips, as she made her way back inside.

No, this warning shouldn't have been meant for her. But, she'd received it, all the same.

It was time to close the windows.

***

_23 I beheld the earth, and, lo, it was without form, and void; and the heavens, and they had no light._

_24 I beheld the mountains, and, lo, they trembled, and all the hills moved lightly._

_25 I beheld, and, lo, there was no man, and all the birds of the heavens were fled._

_26 I beheld, and, lo, the fruitful place was a wilderness, and all the cities thereof were broken down at the presence of the LORD, and by his fierce anger._

_\- Jeremiah 4:23 - 26_

***

Morning came through the windows with a cautious creep, as though the sun worried for the prospect of waking the occupants of this one room. It would have been a sweet thought, Aziraphale noted, had it not caused Crowley to stir against his shoulder.

Truthfully, as was his way, he'd been enjoying the quiet serenity of the early hours, one arm wrapped around his beloved demon, the fingers of the other gently stroking at Crowley's hair. Sleep hadn't found him. It never did. Aziraphale hoped it had lost his address entirely, no longer to bother with the effort. Either way, he wasn't about to complain. Not-sleeping beside a slumbering Crowley left the angel with nothing but time, and opportunity, to warm his lover's body, to soothe a bad dream - or, if he was quick enough, to silence it, all together. And, perhaps, one day, he would be lulled into the gentle tones of unconsciousness.

So long as it was with his arms around Crowley, he was willing to try any number of things.

Funny. The thought didn't horrify him, as it once had.

A bird flew passed the window, interrupting the sunlight in a quick, dark streak. The light snapped back, beaming Aziraphale right in the face. Barely holding back a (may God forgive him) curse of irritation, the angel removed his hand from Crowley's hair, just long enough to wave the curtains to a close. The room was cloaked in darkness again, but it was too late to stop Crowley from gasping himself into a rather impressive yawn.

"Mng," was the unintelligible garble that left the demon's mouth, as he turned out of Aziraphale's hold, and onto his back for a long, indulgent stretch... Which quickly dissolved into a hiss, and a full-bodied flinch.

Aziraphale, having been watching the tempting display, frowned. "Are you all right?"

"Y'know, angel, I know I said..." Crowley paused, grimacing slightly, as he shifted his hips. "I know I said, 'Let's feel it', but this wasn't what I had in-mind."

Aziraphale chuckled, face tinting with colour. "I'm sorry, my dear." He leaned over, to press a kiss to Crowley's temple. His lips lingered, until the recipient went wide-eyed, and pulled away.

"Oh, don't you dare!" Crowley warned, eyeing Aziraphale with a knowing stare.

Aziraphale merely blinked, the picture of innocence. "'Don't', what?"

"You know, very well, 'what'." Crowley huffed. "Don't go trying to heal me."

"Well, as I caused your discomfort, it seemed only natural that I would-"

"-I like it." The interruption was honest, and firm, leaving Aziraphale to blink at Crowley, slowly. Crowley shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest. "Don't give me that look, angel. You can't give it to me, and take it back. I won't have it. It's mine, now. Leave it alone."

Said angel heaved a terribly fond sigh, giving in for the moment. If Crowley wanted to sit - or, _not,_ he considered, with a small amount of un-angelic amusement - in mild agony for a while, so be it. Instead, Aziraphale pressed an affectionate smooch to his lover's cheek, and pushed himself from the bed.

"Hey," came the complaint, following him from the sheets. It was positively petulant. Aziraphale could feel a glow coming on. "I said, 'Don't heal me'. How did you hear, 'Don't stay in bed with me, all day'?"

"I'm only going to make some tea," Aziraphale replied, pulling on a pair of pajama pants. Glancing back, he looked to Crowley, and, _oh,_ that truly was a pout for the ages. It took a handful of steps to round the bed, yellow eyes following him, the entire way. Aziraphale slid a knee back onto the mattress, leaning over Crowley to kiss the demon's forehead. A tremble passed under his lips, which turned upward, as he eased back. Another kiss was left to the bridge of Crowley's nose, followed by a peck to the lips. "You just relax." The words were soft, indulgent, to match the rest of the moment, from the gentle slide of fingers through red hair, to the openly adoring expression in still-sleepy eyes. "I'll bring up a tray." With that promise, Aziraphale pulled himself from Crowley, once again, and made his way to the bedroom door.

From his pillow, Crowley watched every distancing step his angel took. The sight of Aziraphale walking away, it did uncomfortable things to several of his organs, at once, and, _fuck,_ he had become such a _sap._ Though, he could admit, silently... It was worth it. Every stupid look he knew was crossing his face, every gag-inducing flutter in his chest, every love-struck word that left his thrice-be-damned (not really, once was enough, thanks) lips, it was all worth it.

See, the thing was, no matter how much he had wished it so, _this wasn't supposed to be his existence._ Not in the sense of, 'I was an angel, and I shouldn't have fallen, blah, blah, blah', no. This life, this _existence,_ as it stood, it never should have been his. It never should have been _theirs._ But, it was. It was his, and it was theirs, and there was no power left in this Universe, or the next, that was going to tell them any differently.

Because, let's face it, now. If God wanted to file a complaint, She surely would have sent that fucker in, overnight delivery.

Even then, Crowley knew, God could try. She could try, with every piece of Her finely-feathered army, to take this away from him. And, in the end, yeah, She was likely to win, but he'd certainly go down swinging.

 _Sweet Jesus._ He rolled his eyes, and shook his head. He could hardly stand listening to himself, anymore. A few nights (a handful of mornings, two afternoons, and half a call for tea) of incredible sex, with the sole object of his truest affections, and he was already making himself nauseous.

Shifting himself, just so, Crowley winced, as he attempted once - twice - oh, damn, it was no use. He just wasn't going to sit up, just then. Obviously. Everything below his eyebrows _ached,_ in a way he hadn't even realized was _possible._ His legs felt as though they were still trembling, every attempt to stretch them causing him a groan. Aziraphale had been thorough with him, of that, there was no question. Though, it was difficult to question something he presently had a throbbing reminder of.

Crowley turned his eyes to the ceiling, squinting at a small cobweb that clung to the far corner, behind the bed. It was fine, and delicate, the individual strands catching the scant amount of light sneaking in over top of the closed curtains. His angel had always been a bit lax with the dusting, but he was fairly certain that webbing hadn't been up there yesterday.

Fuck, no. If there was a spider in that thing, he was going to eat it.

After all, it would hardly be the most scandalous thing he'd had in his mouth, in the last twenty-four hours.

He was half-way through a privately-flustered chuckle, when he felt it. It was a sudden thing, a tremor that passed over the air. For one beat, then two, the fabric of everything that _was,_ around him, shook. Crowley felt the vibration, right to his core, but he dared not move a muscle. His open mouth took in a breath, tongue evaluating the sudden shift. There was... There was _anger_ in the atmosphere. By the third beat, it was gone, as though it had never happened.

Outside, the world went on, untouched. Cars rolled by, people clipped along in high heels, and someone had just picked up a nail in his bicycle tire. From the sounds of it, the humans hadn't noticed a thing.

Truth be told, Crowley didn't like the implications of that fact.

Forcing himself out of the bed, with a sharp hiss, the demon grabbed the nearest pair of lounge pants he could find. Yanking them on, he hurried out of the bedroom. "Angel?" he called, trying not to sound panicked. That anger, that blaze of glorious fury, it had been angelic. Nothing in Hell could have felt so righteous. So damned _pious._ It made Crowley's skin crawl.

There was a bit of humour there, he was certain. He'd look for it later, when the visions of his best friend being dragged away left his mind.

He was being ridiculous, right? Their matters had been settled. Aziraphale was fine, he had to be. He was making the promised tea, just as he'd said, probably loading up a couple of plates with toast, and pastries to accompany. There was no need to worry.

That was, until he heard glass shattering.

"Aziraphale!" Despite the protest of his hips, Crowley broke into a run. He raced down the stairs, heart thundering in his chest. _No, no, no,_ he knew that feeling, that warning. He'd felt it before. His eyes stung, as he swung around a bookcase. There was no way, no _fucking way_ that this was happening. Not again. No one could take his angel from him, not now, _oh, God, please, don't let this be-_

He nearly fell over himself, as he spotted Aziraphale in the back room, waving a hand, to put a broken carafe of milk back together.

"Aziraphale!" he gasped, wrapping his arms around the angel, as tightly as he could. Aziraphale looked a little dazed, when he pulled back, just a few short seconds later. Clearly, he'd felt it, too. "Oh, thank it all. I thought you'd been-." No, he wasn't going to finish that sentence. He couldn't.

With a disjointed nod, Aziraphale looked Crowley over. "I nearly thought the same," he breathed, voice wavering. His fingers shook, as he reached up to rest his hands at his love's hips. Yes, he'd definitely felt it, too. Crowley had been afraid of that. Less afraid, than of other things, but... "I-I dropped the milk, on my way back upstairs, before I realized..."

Crowley looked up. "Realized, what?"

A frown knitted between Aziraphale's eyebrows, as he looked into the demon's eyes. He looked positively haunted. "The Heavens," he began quietly. Crowley swallowed. "My dear, I believe the Heavens just shook."

Oh, he didn't want to ask this. "Meaning...?" No. No one was coming for them. He wouldn't have it. Aching muscles tensed, anew. _Come and try, you bastards-_

"Meaning," Aziraphale sighed, fingers clutching at Crowley's person for a second. If he noticed the fear in the taller being, he didn't comment. "Oh, I think that... Oh, I wish I could be wrong but... I do believe that someone has been... _thrown_ from Heaven."

To that, Crowley frowned. "What, someone's been cast out?" he asked, in disbelief. "That hasn't happened, since-"

"-No, no," Aziraphale interrupted, tongue peeking out to wet his lips. "Not cast out." A blink. A breath. "Someone has just been _thrown_ from Heaven."

Crowley took a breath of his own. "Who?" He didn't receive an immediate answer, and was about to ask again. He bit his tongue, though, the horrified look in Aziraphale's eyes telling him that his silence might have been for the best.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn. Massive thanks, all around! I appreciate the reads, the kudos, and the feedback, in equal measure. I'm having a great deal of fun, writing this. This chapter should have been along, much sooner, but... Something was bothering me, with it. I discovered what it was, corrected it, and, here we are! ^^!
> 
> This work has a soundtrack, which can be found [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/3ofbww9bhdtg2bglvqu6616r9/playlist/4pZ3BZli0DHZJoNuIG3ND3?si=KG_XVElCROiRefzgKgKxyg), via Spotify.
> 
> Also, as a quick thing, I definitely recognize the angels and demons of 'Good Omens' as genderless. But, for sake of the presentations of our heroes, I used the 'Mpreg' tag. I know it's not everyone's flute of champagne, so.

"Fuckin' kamikaze _birds!_ " Crowley shouted at the closed window, eyes glaring at the ass end of the blackbird he had narrowly missed. It was the third such foolish creature to play perpendicular chicken in their path, speeding down a country road. He was surprised to find the thing still had tail feathers, for how close it had come. Oh, how he hated country driving. City traffic was so much easier. Humans were far more predictable obstacles. Birds just had a collective damn death wish.

Beside him, Aziraphale leaned forward. "Crowley, really!" he cried, bouncing in his seat, in a manner that had nothing to do with the uneven roads. "Can't you go any faster?"

Crowley snapped his attention to the angel, eyes wide behind his sunglasses. The next bird was on its own. " _Eighty years,_ you've been telling me to slow down!" He bared his teeth, growling in disbelief. "Now, you suddenly want me to go _faster?!_ "

"Crowley!"

"I'm already in triple _digits,_ angel!"

"Crowley! The _road!_ "

The demon shouted in frustration, and returned his eyes to a forward focus.

And, they'd been having such a fine morning, too.

Honestly, all that Crowley had wanted to do was lay in bed, and sip tea. Curl up against Aziraphale, and nap, while his angel read the morning paper. Recover from their enthusiastic expressions of devotion, the night before. Travelling uncounted miles, and dodging wildlife, to go on a half-explained _recovery mission_ had decidedly _not_ been on his itinerary.

At the heart of it all, he wasn't entirely surprised. Six thousand years just hadn't been enough of a trial to his patience, apparently.

"It's right up here," Aziraphale directed, pointing toward a cluster of trees, off to the right of the road. His hand was nearly in Crowley's face. "I'm sure of it."

Crowley sighed, preparing to pull off. "All right, angel. All right." The Bentley came to a stop, a few paces from the spot Aziraphale had indicated. Ducking his head, Crowley squinted through the windshield, toward the greying sky. "Might wanna' hurry this up. Looks like it's gonna'-." The passenger door came to a firm shut, and he hissed the last word, mocking, " _Rain._ "

Aziraphale was knee-deep in tall grass, underbrush, and fuck knew _what_ else, by the time Crowley was out of the car. He looked on, unimpressed. There was no way he was trekking through that nonsense. No, not in his best shoes.

"Come _on,_ my dear!"

Crowley shook his head, arms crossed over his chest. "Nah, I think I'll pass," he called back, leaning against the driver's door. "Didn't bring my galoshes."

" _Crowley!_ "

A wordless protest caught in his throat, a sound somewhere between a gurgle, and a groan. _How_ did he always manage to be reduced to this? _How?_

"If you weren't so good with your damn tongue," Crowley grumbled darkly, taking his first step into the unknown. He was relieved, not to find himself sinking in to the ankle, or having the ground slide out from under his feet. His lover was a number of yards ahead of him, on the scent in a way that was almost endearing. But, that was just Aziraphale, all over. Put a task in front of him, and he wouldn't stop until the job was well and truly done. (And, oh, right, of course. _Bloodhound_ ).

Ten or fifteen steps in, Crowley got the unsettling sensation of something crawling up the back of his calf. Oh, hell, he was _sure_ there were spiders out there, just _waiting_ to sink their vicious little fangs into his flesh. And, yeah, sure, it could have been his imagination, or a blade of grass pressing against the leg of his trousers. But, a spider just made so much more _sense,_ didn't it? Certainly, given his luck for the day.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale called. He was no longer in sight, his voice at some distance.

"I'm getting there. _I'm getting there!_ " he snapped, a bit more irritable than was strictly necessary. There were several crooked rows of equally-crooked trees ahead of him, with roots just laying about for any unsuspecting demon to trip over. Oh, that was _really_ going to help his mood. If he found a single scuff mark-

"Crowley!" Aziraphale shouted again, more urgently. As the tree line ended, opening up to a small clearing, the angel was once again in view. "Up here! I've found him!"

"Found _who,_ bless it?!" The words were barely out of his mouth, when he smelled it. _Smoke._ The thick, smoldering stench of ash, of singe marks, of-of-... Crowley shuddered. He tried to swallow it away, but the scent followed down his throat. It made him want to gag, to retch all over Her Creation. (He'd scare that spider off, if there was any justice). His legs moved a bit faster, despite the sudden, overwhelming desire to get as far from that clearing as possible. The feeling grew stronger, the closer he got, the waist-high grass progressively becoming shorter, until it was scorched down to the bare, blackened earth. The _smell,_ fuck, it was un _bear_ able, causing his eyes to sting and water. Crowley raised his arm, wrapping his face into the crook of his elbow. It was little help, but it was enough to keep him moving forward.

It was only a few steps over the burned ground, before Crowley could get a clear picture over his lover's shoulder. He circled the other carefully, stopping where he could see his face. Aziraphale was crouched to the ground, a frown across his lips. There was a shine to his angel's eyes, as he stretched out his arm, hand trembling, fingers hovering over... Over...

There was no stopping it. Crowley turned to the side, and dry heaved.

"Crowley?!" Aziraphale asked, alarmed.

Crowley waved him off, without turning back around. "S'all right, angel," he gasped, trying to pull himself back together. "S'all right. Jus' need a minute."

 _Feathers._ Black-tipped, _burnt_ feathers. Oh, Jesus, he might have needed more than a minute.

Aziraphale gave a needless nod, understanding as much. He flinched slightly, in guilt, as he looked back to the situation before him. He really should have let Crowley stay in the car. This was a scene no being needed to witness, certainly not one of the Fallen. But, there was no changing it, now. _In for a penny..._

Reaching forward, Aziraphale brushed a hand over familiar, messed dark hair, easing it from the forehead that was pressed half into the dirt. He wanted to move him, to get his face up, at least, but there was no way to manage it, without jostling his wings.

"Oh, Gabriel," Aziraphale murmured, his heart breaking, just a little. "What's happened to you?"

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Crowley glanced back. "That wing's broken," he observed, in a hoarse voice. He gave a vague wave in the direction of the Archangel's right wing, which was twisted at a most gruesome angle, just above the base.

Aziraphale nodded in agreement. "Yes, I'm afraid you're right." He hesitated, before touching his fingertips to the base of Gabriel's left wing. He was met with warmth, but nothing unmanageable, as he felt for anything abnormal. Finding nothing, he sighed. "This one seems fine, thankfully."

"Yeah, sure," Crowley chimed back in, with dull sarcasm. "Aside from the charcoal someone's tried to make of him, he's just dandy." Aziraphale flashed him a chilling glare. It was a definite case of 'Message: Received'. "All right, ah..." Crowley looked over Gabriel's form, splayed across the ground. His mouth was already watering with the threat of another gag, but he fought it back down. "He's still alive, right? Not, ah..." He didn't want to say it, not to Aziraphale. The suggestion was bad enough.

With a motion of his hand, Aziraphale assessed the damage. He grimaced. "There are a number of injuries," he concluded, troubled. "Quite frankly, more than I think I can heal."

A cool breeze blew across the clearing, rustling grass, leaves, and stray feathers, alike. Crowley shivered. It was awfully quiet around them, all of a sudden. That feeling of something crawling over his skin returned.

They had to go.

"All right," he began again. "We have to get out of here. It might not be safe."

Aziraphale looked up quickly. "We can't leave him here!" he cried, aghast. No matter their history, there was still a limit to unnecessary cruelties.

Yellow eyes rolled skyward. "Did I say that we were going to leave him?" Crowley returned impatiently. "We're going to get him to the car, and get the hell out of here." He paused, and considered. "Although, it might be a better idea for you to just take him straight back to London." Again, Aziraphale glared. "This isn't about the car, angel," Crowley insisted, before said angel could make another sound. "It's not." Even though, it was. Just a little. He just wasn't about to admit it. "If we try to move him, we could make it worse. And, that wing won't make for a smooth ride. Trust me."

It took a moment, but Aziraphale's glare softened into reluctant understanding. "Of course, of course," he relented. "I'm sorry."

"Just get him back to the shop," Crowley urged. "I'll be right behind you."

Aziraphale glanced back up. "Will you be all right?" he asked, eyes reflecting no small amount of worry. He didn't like the idea of leaving Crowley behind, shaken as they both were.

"I'll be fine," Crowley replied. "The second you go, I'm popping right back in the car, and breaking every posting I can."

"All right." Aziraphale nodded, resting a hand on Gabriel's back. He didn't take his eyes from his partner. "Do hurry, my dear. And... Be careful."

Crowley smiled, just enough to say so. "Not in a million years." Then, he waved an impatient hand. "Now, _get._ " In the next blink, Aziraphale and Gabriel had disappeared. Crowley snapped his fingers, returning himself to the Bentley. He started the engine, and made a wide arc in the middle of the road. Rain drops began to spatter against the windshield, as he sped back toward Soho.

"Crowley, Crowley, Crowley," he mumbled, pointedly ignoring the way his hands shook on the steering wheel. "Why didn't you just stay in bed?"

***

Aziraphale hadn't given much thought to the extra rooms of his flat, over the years. Some had become storage, while others-Well, no, actually. _All_ of them had become storage, to one extent, or another. Books in the bedroom, bottles in the bathroom. Bits and bobs laying about, here and there, from this century, and that passing fad. Until very recently, as Crowley had slowly begun to reside with him, the angel hadn't seen the need for _one_ available bedroom, let alone _two._ Everything from the master had been moved to the spare, and that had been just fine.

Now, a blink, and piles of books were sliding across the floor, carelessly knocking into the walls. Room was made for a single bed, beneath one of the windows. Aziraphale eased Gabriel down onto the mattress, careful hands arranging his wings to either side of his body. There was little to be done for the right one, Aziraphale noted, with a grimace. He propped it against the wall, as gently as he could, trying not to flinch when several loose, blackened feathers cascaded onto the Archangel's back.

Taking a step back from the bed, Aziraphale crossed the room. He had to lean over a box to reach the far window, which, to his dismay, resisted being opened.

"Of all the times," he griped, jaw clenched. It took several tries, but he was able to get it open, with a final shove. A light breeze immediately brushed against his face, and Aziraphale took a deep breath. Let it back out. Took in another. He repeated the process a number of times, very slowly, until the urge to gag had left his senses. Until he no longer tasted ash on his tongue.

Oh, he hoped that Crowley would take his time, getting back. At least, until the room could air out properly.

Glancing back at the bed, Aziraphale frowned, and wrung his fingers together. _What to do, what to do?_ In the rush of the moment, trying to bring Gabriel back to Soho had seemed like such a good idea. As the adrenaline had begun to wear off, he couldn't help but notice how far out of his element he was. There had been no chance of leaving Gabriel behind, but...

Aziraphale shook his head. He knew what he needed to do, of course, he just needed to focus. Look at each step logically, one at a time. Not lose himself to the ugly possibilities of what had lead to this. Not let the guilt of pulling Crowley into that field paralyze him, as it seemed determined to.

And, they'd been having such a fine morning, too.

Gabriel hadn't moved, still unconscious, but very much alive. _Small miracles._ Whatever had befallen him... The thought caused Aziraphale a sigh, as he perched himself on the edge of the mattress. Gabriel's corporation had been put through it. Various cracks, and bruises to his ribs. A fractured leg. Wrists that he would almost think had been _crushed._ And, those were the injuries he could _see._

"Oh, how dreadful," he murmured, waving a hand first over the Archangel's left wrist. Definitely broken. He mended it carefully, from bone to tendon, repeating the same process on the right wrist. Heaven was sure to be in a perfect tizzy over these miracles, when the time came. Aziraphale scowled. _Let them,_ he thought, putting a little extra effort into healing a rib, just out of spite. He knew what he'd felt, the tremors from Above. The evidence was right here, a mangled, half-charred mess atop his sheets.

Newly acquired, or not, they were still his sheets, damn it. He'd be throwing them away, too, at his first chance. That smell was _not_ coming out.

Really, he ought to send the Almighty the bill.

 _Oh, for the love of-._ His Inner Voice sounded an awful lot like Crowley these days.

The point being, there was no mistaking Exhibit A as _not_ being a by-product of Occurrence B. Gabriel was a fighter, one of the finest. Yet, here he was, battered, bloodied, _burned,_ and most certainly _not_ healing on his own. Archangels weren't known for going down quietly. Lucifer certainly hadn't.

Aziraphale hoped Gabriel had fought. No matter what happened, no one deserved such cruelty.

Moving his hand to the next injury, Aziraphale's mind became rather keen to wander. He couldn't help but wonder... Had it been this way for Crowley, too? Had he crashed to the Earth, a wretched, tortured mess? _Of course, he had,_ he scolded himself. _They all had._ The thought of it, though, of Crowley so vulnerable, and broken, and _utterly alone_... And, he'd let Crowley witness it again. Forced him to endure, until it had made him physically ill. Aziraphale's vision watered.

Actually, it _wavered._ Oh, that was concerning. There was still cause for tears, of course. But... Well, it would be incredibly helpful, if the room would stop swaying back and forth, like that.

Shaking his head, Aziraphale attempted, once more, to focus. It seemed a bit more difficult than when he'd started. That probably had something to do with the dryness of his mouth. He'd have to see to that, in a moment. _Priorities, Aziraphale._ He had a kidney to, uh... He blinked hard, several times. _Right,_ he had a kidney to fix. That laceration wasn't going to correct itself.

One hand hovered over Gabriel's lower back, the fingers of the other coming up to rub over Aziraphale's own eyes. He could feel pressure beginning to build behind them, reaching toward his forehead, his temples. Easily connected to the spots that swarmed before him, when he looked back up.

 _Oh, dear._ Perhaps, he needed to tend to that drink sooner, rather than later.

Aziraphale pulled himself away from Gabriel, and made to stand. He'd intended to turn, he really had, but that was the exact moment his world seemed to shift slightly to the left. He pitched forward, vaguely aware of the carpet calling his name, in the distance. Well, if they were to meet, so violently as was coming, at least they would be on a first name basis.

Just as he managed to brace himself for an unfortunate impact, Aziraphale felt himself caught in a strong grip. With a huff of surprise, the angel tilted his head, only to be greeted by a shock of red hair. His first instinct was to run his hands through it, feel the silky softness he loved, so dearly. A smile crept over his lips, at the memory.

Crowley, it seemed, was in no mood to smile. A shame. Crowley had such a beautiful smile. "Bless it all, angel," he complained, shifting Aziraphale around, to better support him. "What in the Seven Hells are you doing?!"

Aziraphale blinked, as Crowley pulled one of his arms around his shoulders. Tried to recall. _Oh._ "I was talking to the carpet, dear." By Heaven, was that his voice? So slurred, and slow?

"Talking to the-." Crowley was looking a him strangely, now. "Have you been at the whiskey, again?"

He felt his face crumple. "Not since we Celebrated."

Crowley _tsked._ "Celebrated, yeah." He shook his head, and sighed. "C'mon, angel. Focus for me, yeah?" He tried. Oh, how he tried. "What happened? I came upstairs, and you were almost on your face!"

On his face? He'd been... Oh, right, he'd been... He'd been up to something important, hadn't he? Fixing something. What had he broken? _Damn it all,_ why was his mind so fuzzy? He tried to think back. Spare bedroom, a strange place to be, in and of itself. He'd come back, and moved things around, and-Oh, no. _No,_ it was-. He gasped in a breath. "Gabriel!" he exclaimed, a bit too loudly, if Crowley's slight flinch was anything to go by. Aziraphale lowered his voice considerably, to continue. "I was trying to help Gabriel, and..."

"And, you wore your bleeding heart right out, didn't you?" He scoffed, but Aziraphale couldn't help but notice that the demon glanced back to look at their unexpected patient. If he wasn't mistaken, Aziraphale thought he felt Crowley shiver. "Well, he doesn't look to be going very far, for now." Crowley turned his attentions back to his lover. " _You,_ on the other hand, are coming downstairs."

Aziraphale wanted to protest. He was hardly done with his task, but at the same time... It rather seemed his body _was._ Besides, Crowley was bound to get his way, in the end. Easier to give in now. With that thought in mind, he nodded in surrender. "Yes, that would be a good idea, I think." When Crowley began to move them toward the door, Aziraphale did his best to keep up. "Thank you, my dear."

***

AC/DC had once proclaimed that 'Hell Ain't a Bad Place to Be'. Clearly, they'd never visited the Head Office. It was a matter of perception, perhaps, based upon several factors. One's crimes, and dedication to the job. And, even that was heavily dependent upon one's title, and job description.

Someone had once tried to sell Hastur on his position in Hell as 'a damn lucky spot to land (no puns intended)'. Hastur had proceeded to punch said Someone in the throat (all pains relished).

 _Luck_ didn't land you in Hell. _Luck_ didn't exist in Hell.

There was a training seminar set to begin in twenty minutes. The bi-weekly rotation, now a man shorter, since Ligur's untimely demise, had landed squarely upon Hastur. _Fuck,_ he needed a cigarette. Training seminars were, by far, the single most boring, torturous necessity, this side of their weekly report-in meetings. Ridiculous, in and of themselves. Half of their meetings could have been summed up in two-line e-mails. (Hastur was finally getting the hang of technological communication, after more than two decades). Of course, e-mails just didn't have the desired effect, efficient as they were. They would have been blessings, in place of over-crowded lecture halls. Unacceptable, that.

 _Blessings_ didn't exist in Hell, either.

Hastur rose from his chair, with an ugly growl. The kind of growl that made lesser demons take a wide step back. One fell on his ass, and a laugh was half-way up Hastur's throat, before he realized that fear hadn't contributed to the fall.

Well. Not _that_ fall.

Hell was an unstable structure, at best. The Dark Lord ran a tight ship, to be sure, but structurally? A blasted mess. Cracked floors, leaking pipes, and a truly foul odor that drifted from the hallway, beside Hastur's desk. (Of course, there was no saying it wasn't the new promotion in Accounting). Nothing worked like it was supposed to. And, yeah, that was probably the point. But, when the walls began to shake? Pardon him, that he instantly expected them to come down, around him.

He wasn't the only one, judging from the terrified shouts that rose up from his colleagues. Demons panicked, every which way, clutching at one another, flattening themselves against the walls. Hastur grabbed onto the edge of his desk, for the split-second the tremor lasted. Gone, as quick as it came. Strange, he granted. But, still...

No one moved.

Glancing around the room, the Duke of Hell frowned. He would work himself up to a scowl, in a minute. Pathetic excuses for the damned, the lot of them, cowering from _that?_ Had the walls _actually_ crumbled on their heads, he might have let it slide. This was just sad. Coffee mugs hadn't even slid off of desks, for fuck's sake.

"Shut up, the lot a' ya'!" Hastur shouted, as a din of complaints and concerns began to overtake the room. It was effective, to say the least. Countless pairs of eyes stared at him, expectant, and hesitant. "You've all got work t'do, so be doin' it!" Bodies scattered, rushing back for their stations. Hastur gave another growl, this time in disgust. How Hell had landed, with so many cowards, he would never understand.

"Hastur."

The demon in-question looked up, along with the rest of the nosy-ass bastards behind him. Dagon stood in the doorway, back straight, but wild-eyed. Didn't look too good, Hastur couldn't help but think.

"To what do I owe the honour?" he asked, a smile of false sincerity spreading over his lips.

Dagon merely replied, "Lord Beelzebub would like a word." Lord of the Files glared across the room, in a sweeping arc. "Nothing to see, here. Back to work."

Such was how, twenty minutes later, Hastur found himself staring at two closed elevator doors. Blowing out a breath, he prepared himself for the slowest ascent in history. Dante may have claimed knowledge of Nine Circles, but he hadn't accounted for the Industrial Revolution. Modern efficiency. _One hundred blasted floors of utter bullshit._

The metal creaked, and groaned, each floor creeping by slower than the last. Hastur pulled out a cigarette, and placed it between his lips. Caught the end in his teeth, and wiggled it back and forth, but didn't light it. His body already felt less crowded, even in such a confined space. No one was touching him. Nothing was _dripping on him._ He could take a minute, and just breathe.

He hadn't been out of the Office in quite some while. The business with the Antichrist had really set him back on his paperwork. Hell Forbid, in quite a literal sense, that there be a back-log. Losing his partner somehow meant he had twice as much to account for, which didn't make a damn bit of sense. He sure as fuck wasn't doing twice as much work. And, unless Ligur had somehow posthumously willed Hastur his perpetually-unfinished incident reports, someone was yanking his chain.

Judging from the way the elevator jerked to a stop, someone was yanking _its_ chain, too. The lights flickered, a few times. Hastur growled, and jammed his thumb into the 'L' button. Nothing. He tried it again, with more disdain. Still, nothing. He glanced up, reading the bright green numbers above the doors. _Floor eighty-five._ Well, if the display was still up, it was surely just a hiccup. Could have been worse. The power might have failed. But, it hadn't.

Until, yeah, of course, it had.

Hastur glared into the darkness. "You've gotta' be fuckin' _kiddin' me._ "

***

"I just don't understand it," Aziraphale murmured, as Crowley poured him another cup of tea. He watched, as the other prepared the liquid, just so, before setting the saucer and cup down in front of him. He was already up to his third pour, the first two having done wonders for his scattered mind. Crowley had been right, of course, as he usually was. The angel had pushed himself too far, too fast. "I've never seen anything like it. An Archangel, of all beings."

Crowley shrugged a shoulder. "He's pissed off a lot of people, over the years." Picking up a crystal decanter, the demon poured a measure of dark liquid into his own glass. Scotch, by the smell of it. "Might not be so surprising, he finally got worked over."

"Someone beat the _daylights_ out of him, Crowley," Aziraphale insisted, frowning. "And, they knew what they were doing. He..." He sighed sadly. "His wrists were broken." Crowley paused, in his pour. "Both of them."

Slipping the stopper back into the decanter, Crowley set the container on the table. "Defensive wounds?" he asked, turning to open a cupboard. He retrieved a small tin, from which he removed a trio of iced biscuits. Said biscuits were quickly deposited onto Aziraphale's saucer.

"Possibly," Aziraphale conceded, mildly distracted. He gently grabbed Crowley's hand, before he could slip away. Turning his palm up, the angel pressed his lips to the inside of Crowley's wrist. "Thank you, my love." There was a brief pause, before long fingers slid over Aziraphale's cheek, thumb brushing back and forth, over his skin. He leaned into it, breath ghosting over the heel of Crowley's hand, as he whispered, "There's still so much to be healed..."

Crowley's hand withdrew, if only to recover the biscuit tin. "Yeah, well," he began, setting the tin next to the decanter, on the table. "It'll have to wait."

"It can't _wait,_ if he's still in pain."

"Aziraphale." Crowley slid into the empty chair across from the exhausted angel. "You already gave it your all. Overuse of miracles aside, the _energy_ you've expended..." He shook his head sadly, as he stared at the other. "Can't imagine what would've happened, if I'd been any longer."

"So, I got a little..." Aziraphale flushed. "Carried away."

"'Carried away' ended, about twenty minutes in, I imagine." The demon took a sip from his glass. "That leaves forty more, above the call."

"Crowley, I know what I'm doing-." He was interrupted, as Crowley brought his hand down, on top of the table. _Hard._ They stared at one another for an extended moment, both in some measure of surprise.

"I'm sorry," Crowley apologized quietly, that same hand moving up to rub the back of his neck. "Just... Look. I don't like this, all right? There's so much of this I don't like, but you?" He scoffed, and looked at the scotch, as though the liquid had personally offended him. "I almost lost you to that insufferable bastard, once," he growled, in a low, unsteady tone. "I won't have you killing yourself, just to fix his stupid ass. I _won't."_

Aziraphale watched his lover for a moment, in silence. The tension in his shoulders, the frown lines crossing his handsome face. He could admit to the fresh wave of guilt he felt, at having put them there. Crowley's concern wasn't surprising, not by a long shot. Still, Aziraphale reached across the table, wrapping his still-trembling hand around Crowley's, as it cradled his drink. Worried eyes looked up, and Aziraphale tried for a worn smile. "What should I do, then, do you think?"

Crowley promptly turned his hand over, sliding their fingers together. "Eat your biscuits," he directed, nodding his head toward the angel's saucer. "Get some strength back in you." The smirk he attempted didn't quite get him there. "We can argue this out, once you're feeling better."

**Author's Note:**

> Come have a word with me! I'm on [tumblr](https://myckicade.tumblr.com/), and [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/myckicade/).


End file.
